


Sun and Stars

by Ophium



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophium/pseuds/Ophium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When avid hunter Jean Kirschtein takes his rifle out for a spin in the woods a few miles behind his country home, two deer aren't the only creatures he meets on his trip. Having been robbed of his chance to shoot the large wolf like animal when it appears to steal his kill, Jean returns home with empty hands and a crowded mind. Had it been his eyes playing tricks on him, or had this wolf been something more than the large figure he saw that morning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun and Stars

_Have you ever tried to hold on to your humanity? When others convinced you of being no more than a subject, an object, which they can bend to their will. When they told you that you are a monster that deserved punishment, but you could not remember your sins. When they took away your loved ones, leaving you to rot in the dark._

 _Though in their darkness, you have never been alone._

It’s early November, and the far east side of the hills remains untouched by dawn’s wake, the land still dazed by the hush of the moonlight only hours ago; still and asleep as daybreak peeks past highland meadows and rocky mountains. A fresh blanket of snowfall covers the oblate landscape, distributed evenly amongst elevated dunes and amassed forestry, weighing down the quills of pine trees and stripping others of their leaves. Paired crows circle just above the treetops, standing out against an ashen sky and fair scene, cawing to one another about the disturbance of peace below them. Their racket echoes low through the dense wood, shaking the snow from a single tree’s limb and causing its heft to fall gently down. A young fawn, born in the month of September, later than most; climbs a slush mound near a clear stream, leaving crescent prints in the snowfall, followed by larger ones of it’s mother close behind. Not yet frozen, the flow runs over slick rocks, and the doe balances gracefully over them, careful as her lean neck bows to drink from the crystalline aqua. Offspring imitates and only rises when told to, careful of the dangers that lie beyond the range of their ears and sight. Anticipative winter holds dangers unknown to even the kin of the forest, for hunting season remains still; not yet passing because of harsh temperature or the lack of green. For whom is the question, as predators of the scape do not sleep when the snow falls, only rest; quiet, seeing. This may seem most likely to appear amongst scavengers -- twin crows rest on the branch of a large pine above the doe and her heir, pecking at the needles and speaking to themselves about whatever crows so desire, because even the caw and call of they cannot warn of the danger surrounding them; and so they wait, listen -- talk of the weather and how it will snow, how dull sky has showed signs of agitation and has grown angry. The snowfall screams upon arrival only minutes later, and the coupled crows boast and whisper about their intuition, breathing mist upon coal feathers until a presence drives them into silence. 

_Eons. That is how long I spent suspended in nothingness. In time, a pale, dim glow filled it. I felt as if some consciousness started soaking through my skull and into my brain. Dripping with heavy drops, not letting me pass away nice and peaceful. I fought with myself. I had no strength to open my eyes, and even when I believed I did, I could not see. And finally, after processing the situation on and on, I realized.. I was blind._

His breath is no more than that of his steps; slow, slight, cautious; to be afoot meant to be obvious, and the sheer cost of being seen would deprive him of.. what he had left. He leaves prints as if a shadow, holding his weapon high and trudging through banks of snow only to be left a few feet from his previous destination. He has little time to spare, and bringing solace to the waking gasp of forenoon is accomplished only by claiming what is his. The hunter awaits, reaching a mound in which he uses to perch his gun and lie without as much as the sound of his jacket crunching beneath his weight; and that is where he spots his prey. They’re unsuspecting, the two creatures, and he knows that a fawn and a doe are no match for the power in the rifle barrel, no matter where he hits them and without a thought he aims and places a steady index to the trigger; and yet ----- 

The crows that warn and waver the forest caw and plea and yell above the large trees, their noise echoing through the wood and to the ears of the predator. quickly it runs, leaving large, deep prints in the snow behind it. It does not see the stumps in which it jumps over, nor the changing level of the ground or the populated spruce it moves around. Though its eyes are the color of the sun and of the sea, the beast can not see without the help of sound; waves of sound that give it a sense of direction and color and awareness that help it survive. It is quick on its feet, leaping a last foot and into the open sight of its meal. 

\---------- Yet he is interrupted. Though the light has yet to reach him he knows what he has saw; the canines of a wolf dug deep into the flesh of the doe’s neck, leaving it to kick for only a few moments before it hangs limp in the jaws of its killer. The fawn has fled long before it’s mother had passed, and it is lucky it did not suffer the same fate. It marvels at it’s kill, and the hunter cannot believe the size of his body as it paws at the carcass, nor the size of its teeth and its gape and the color of its eyes as it licks the bloodied deer’s fur, lapping the red from the holes in its nape. It was as if the sun and the moon and the stars were trapped in its iris, one glowing pale yellow and the other blue and he could not pull the trigger. He had grown frightened, the mortal, because even after the beast had fled with its breakfast he could not get the image out of his mind and it had thrown him into a state of shock, index leaving the rest of the trigger and pressing over the soft of his temple, as if to treat a migraine that had been bugging him for ages. 

Jean, the hunter, did not believe in immortals. He did not believe in the stories of old and some of new, not in folks tales nor the legends that wore in the town he resides; he did not believe until the morning of the first kill, and since then he had never stopped believing, not even when he slept at night and dreamt of his fate, awoken every night by the image of a breathless deer, struggling in the grasp of a wolf bigger than he had ever seen. 

He believed in monsters, and the thought of it drove him to insanity.


End file.
